


Relativity

by StarDrifter759



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Tomione, F/M, Professor Tom Riddle, Slow Build, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-20
Updated: 2017-09-22
Packaged: 2018-10-08 11:54:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10386102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarDrifter759/pseuds/StarDrifter759
Summary: Looking up at the ceiling of her room in 12 Grimmauld Place Hermione was barely able to resist hysterical laughter. She was trying to decide if a Robert Burns  ‘To a Mouse’ quote or Murphy’s Law best describe her situation… Perhaps both. Maybe the combination of ‘the best laid plans of mice and men’ and ‘whatever can go wrong will go wrong’ is the only way to depict how an attempted assassination of a young Tom Riddle winds up with him very much alive, and in fact, under the Order’s roof this very minute – in 1997. Lord have mercy on their souls.What has she done?





	1. Prologue

_She clutched at his waist, desperate to hold him there, to keep him with her. Eyes brimming with unshed tears she raised her lips to his, whimpering at the gentle kiss, the hands softly cupping her face. Her tears spilled as he eased back, using his thumbs to brush away the moisture. “I’ll remember you.” She promised brokenly. He smiled bitterly, sad eyes sweeping her face. “No, you won’t.”_

 

_-\\-_

 

**March 2 nd 1997**

 

“Harry!” Hermione hissed venomously. “We can’t do this! You haven’t thought this through! Do you have any idea how many things could go wrong? This won’t fix things! And what happens when the ministry finds out that we messed with time? We’ll be thrown in Azkaban, Harry! And that is on the _extreme_ off chance that we survive this to begin with! Or that we don’t manage to do irreparable damage to the fabric of this universe! You can’t mess with time Harry! Not like this! Small things can change – maybe – but this never will! Terrible things happen to wizards who mess with time Harry, how many times am I going to have to tell you that?! This is so illegal.”

Harry continued to tug her forward, as they ran toward the Forbidden Forest. “I have to try Hermione. You know that. You know what memory I’m trying to get from Slughorn. And now Ron is in the hospital. Just like Katie. What if we can’t kill him now? What if – in this time – it is literally impossible? How many lives could we save Hermione?” His eyes were bright, desperate and feverish. Hermione sighed, knowing she would cave, but unable to see him crushed – again. He was thinking of his parents, of Sirius, of not having to be ‘The Chosen One’ anymore. A normal life. 

“Harry, wait.” She yanked her arm out of his grasp and came to a stop. He halted as well, and looked at her mutely. “It might take some time to find him alone, and vulnerable. We need to figure out how we’re going to maneuver back there. How we’re going to survive. We can’t very well enroll in Hogwarts when we haven’t even been born yet. Our _parents_ wouldn’t have even been born yet. If we’re going to do this, we need a plan.”

“Mione… If you can name one time when our carefully thought out plans actually worked, I’ll do it.” He responded dryly.

Hermione opened her mouth to respond… and closed it again a moment later. Rolling her eyes as she looked away. “Okay, but -“

“No, Mione. We plan, all hell breaks loose, and we wing it. So lets just wing it. We didn’t have a plan in mind when we went back to save Sirius, and _that_ actually worked out!” 

Huffing impatiently, Hermione crossed her arms and looked out over the grounds. “Okay Harry, fine. We’ll do it your way. But this is a really bad idea.” Harry just grinned at her and took off toward the forest. Shaking her head and muttering to herself, Hermione followed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay guys, please bare with me a bit. I suck a summaries and this story is gonna do some hopping. It will take a few chapters to get to the good part of the story, but we gotta do this right. I will do my best to keep it from feeling like it skips too much, but no promises. However it is all necessary, that I do promise. Also, I love science and physics but I am not gifted with math so excuse all errors - but I mean this is a fanfiction for a scifi/fantasy story so I don't feel too bad taking liberties there. ;) Anyway, hope you enjoy.


	2. September First

_“Tell me,” he said, drawing a line on a scrap of parchment, bookended by heavy blots of ink. “What is the fastest way to travel from point A to point B?” She frowned quizzically, “Just as you’ve drawn, a direct path between the two.” He smiled disarmingly. “No.” He accentuated his flat statement by folding the parchment, drawing inward, blots level. “The fastest way to travel is to bend spacetime, and take one step.” Raising the quill, he pushed it into the parchment, puncturing both blots._

 

_-\\-_

 

**\- Forty-Eight Years Earlier -**

September 1st 1943

 

Tom sagged against the castle wall, thankful for the dark and the late hour. His breath shuddered out of him in heaving gasps. Feeling moisture on his face he looked up into the clear night sky… where he had expected to see clouds instead of twinkling starlight. Dazed he brought his fingers up to touch his cheek. They came away wet. He was… weeping. He’d never done that before, not even as a babe. Swallowing hard Tom returned his gaze to the sky and concentrated on his breathing. His eyes were soon dry, breath deep and steady. Swallowing again, he gave himself a few seconds more for composures sake, to solidify his resolve, then pushed off the wall.

 

-|-

 

**\- Present -**

September 1st 1991

 

The start of a new year. Tom sighed and looked out at the sea of students, all noise and youthful energy. Tom kept his hands folded neatly in his lap under the table. This was it. The year he had been waiting for and dreaded at the same time. He could feel Dumbledore’s concerned gaze on him, and fought the urge to sigh again. He could remember of course – sometimes _quite_ vividly – his former hatred for his former teacher. But that was before _she_ had come, before he’d seen what would become of him if he didn’t change, before he’d had to rely on Dumbledore to be saved from himself. It was time. With a gesture from Dumbledore, Minerva led the nervous crop of first years into the great hall. Catching sight of bushy brown hair Tom felt his lips stretch into a smile, even as his heart felt a pang. Next his eyes found shocking red, and then messy black. The pain in his heart eased as his smile grew. He was going to enjoy the next seven years. He knew it. 

Midnight found him in his Hogwarts quarters. Frequently, he would floo home. He had managed a private connection between his rooms in Hogwarts and his house on the mountain lake. But not tonight. He was expecting a visitor. Tom knocked back two fingers of Scotch, then poured another and pulled out his brandy, preparing a snifter of that as well. Hearing the expected knock, he willed his hidden front door to open and held out the freshly poured brandy without looking at his visitor. 

“Tom,” Dumbledore greeted. Nodding his head in thanks as he accepted the proffered glass.

“Albus,” Tom returned.

“I see you were expecting me.” The headmaster commented as he settled into his favorite chair near the hearth.

“Mmm, I had a feeling.” Tom drawled, giving his boss a strained half smile before gliding over to sit across from the headmaster, glass in one hand, bottle in the other. Dumbledore peeked over his spectacles, giving the alcohol in Tom’s hands a pointed glance. 

“So I take it that was them?” Dumbledore began, conversationally. Tom threw an irritated look at the headmaster for his asinine comment.

“You’ve seen my memories Albus, you know very well that was them.” Another double down, he lifted the bottle, debating pouring another double or simply drinking from the bottle. 

“Not all of them…” Dumbledore murmered, referencing Tom’s memories, “Miss Granger especially, you said?” The headmaster’s tone was gentle - caring.

Bottle… definitely the bottle. Tossing the empty glass into the fire, Tom took a swig of Scotch before meeting Dumbledore’s eyes. “Yes… Hermione especially.” Sighing deeply Tom rested his head in free hand, fingers carding through his still-thick onyx locks. “If you don’t mind Headmaster, I’d like some privacy, to…” He trailed off, taking another swallow of liquor “process this.”

Dumbledore nodded, “Of course my friend.” Rising, the older wizard rested a comforting hand on Tom’s shoulder. “It’s not really her. You know that, don’t you? This Hermione Granger will not be as you remember her.”

“Yes, I know.” Tom murmured, blank eyes fixed on the fire. “That’s what I’m trying to process. I thought that I’d made peace with this… but she’s here now.” He smiled fondly. Oddly glad to have seen the young happy and carefree child version of the fierce young woman who had so profoundly affected him. She didn’t know it. Young and tucked into her first night at Hogwarts, but the world had changed for her. He had changed because of her. Dumbledore’s hand was still a heavy weight on his shoulder, apparently not needing to be told that there was more. “She was staring at me.” He continued, voice still low and quiet. “All through the feast, she kept looking at me, and she looked confused, like she recognized me but… couldn’t place it. And she never will. I know that. But seeing her look at me like that, trying to figure out where she’d seen me before…” Standing, he turned to face Dumbledore. “I moved past this. A long time ago. I am glad that their lives wont see the blood and pain that their counterparts did. I will enjoy watching them grow, get into trouble, and live full lives. I never thought there would be even a whisper of knowing left behind.”

“The soul is an amazing, and ill-understood aspect of humanity. The souls of so many are on their second life, thanks to you. And Tom, you did not need to tell me, for me to know that the bond formed between you, was deep and abiding. Your soul changed because of it. Perhaps hers did too. But even so, her life experiences will differ, and she is not and will not be, as she was.” Albus’ voice was kind, his eyes concerned. “Try to get some rest, young friend, the corralling begins tomorrow.” With a last parting wink Dumbledore saw himself out.

A wave of his hand and Tom exchanged his bottle for a vial of dreamless sleep and made his way to bed. Albus was right, tomorrow would be a long day.

 

-|-

 

Hermione nibbled on the end of her quill, eyes darting around the room with some trepidation. So far her first day of classes had been excellent – the classes themselves at least, if not the students – and she hadn’t been nervous about any of her previous lessons… but this was Defense Against The Dark Arts, with Professor Riddle. As in _the_ Tom Riddle. She had read about him in _Hogwarts: A History_ , of course, along with information about Dumbledore and a whole host of facts about this school and those who had made it great. Professor Riddle was the only known living descendent of a Hogwarts founder. He was the heir of Slytherin, he defeated Grindelwald, he was a researcher and curse-breaker who worked and traveled all over the world. And yet… when she had first seen him, sitting beside the Headmaster she hadn’t known yet who he was. After all, there were no pictures in _Hogwarts: A History_. She was staring because she could have sworn she’d seen him before. She needed to see his eyes. He was too far away at the feast and she couldn’t really see his eyes. She couldn’t shake the feeling that when she did, she would know. 

Startling as the classroom door slammed open allowing the chatter from the hallway to flow in with the footsteps of entering students, Hermione snapped upright, once again focusing on her surroundings. Though not really paying attention to the chatter of her fellow first years. A Gryffindor boy sat beside her, she thought his name was Dean. Tossing him a brief meek smile she once again focused on the blank chalkboard at the front of the room. For the life of her she couldn’t figure out why this chalkboard – the chalkboard in Professor Riddle’s room - captivated her so. She could picture it in her mind’s eye, covered with complicated writing and figures. A hum of excitement moved through her body. It was almost time; class would start in nine seconds. 

The moment the clock chimed to the top of the hour a hiss filled the room. Turning to find the sound she saw a massive python slithering down the center aisle toward her. She gasped, hearing a mix of sounds from the rest of the student. Sounds of appreciation from most of the boys – figures – with accompanying shrieks and gasps coming mainly from the girls. 

“First years, say hello to Nagini,” A smooth baritone rumbled from the front of the room, causing whiplash as the student jerked their heads back to the front of the room, where their teacher was suddenly standing. “As far as you are concerned she is my assistant and will be present for all lessons. Try not to step out of line. She has quite a bite.” The professor continued, a slight smirk curling one corner of his lips at the pale terrified faces in front of him. 

Like the night before, Hermione found herself staring. Her face pale not because of the snake, but because she realized why he seemed so familiar. Not that it made any logical sense, not even an iota of sense. But those eyes… she’d always known those eyes. Had dreamed of them every night of her young life. How…?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it's been a long, loooong time since I've written fanfiction, and this is a break in the pattern for me. I've always written Tom Riddle/Voldemort and typically prefer him to be dark, so I'm still trying to find my way with a redeemed Tom Riddle, and I've never written a Tomione before so here goes nothing. Tell me what you think!


	3. What If

_Her heart pounded furiously. Her mind couldn’t seem to grasp this surreal reality. How did he do that? How was it that his breath ghosting across her lips managed to trounce every rational thought? His lips molded to hers. Her mind stopped._

 

 

November 29th 1993

 

Hermione flew upright, tumultuous curls bounding around her face and shoulders, sticking to the sweat-slicked skin of cheek, neck, and chest, as her fingers twisted into the sheets beside her legs. As per usual ~~Tom~~ … _Professor Riddle_ has featured in her nightly imagines. Unfortunately for her – and her enduring fancy, running on year three now – this dream had stuck true to its newest evolution. His eyes had always been there. Always. After her very first day of lessons at Hogwarts the dreams had also included his voice and occasionally the impression of his form or face. Never clear, not like his eyes. She knew every fleck of sapphire and eddy of heather in his capricious, storm cloud eyes. At least, his eyes were capricious, changing based on his mood and lighting, and sometimes – she was convinced – just because they could. She had never grown bored of seeing those eyes, no matter how many times she had seen them (over five thousand times in her dreams alone). Regardless, over the last two years she had grown accustomed to his voice gracing her nights, his person gradually taking a corporeal form. But lately… lately her sense of touch was as active as her visual and auditory receptors. She could feel his skin (she knew it was his) warm and firm under her fingers. The timbre of his voice changed to a contented growl, rumbling through her ears and fingers alike. Releasing a shaky breath Hermione raised her elbows to rest atop bent knees, damp brow falling into her equally damp palms.

Bloody.

Fucking.

Hormones.

Puberty was an utter load of bullocks. Complete, absolute, total, entire, sheer _shit_. After the first dream with his breath in her ear and body beneath her touch, she had blushed furiously upon seeing him in class the next day. Harry – the mangy git – had noticed. And after a brief frown of confusion had smiled brilliantly - mischievously. Horror had flooded her system. It was a common refrain from Hogwarts boys that all the girls fancied cool, detached, aloof Professor Riddle. Hermione had always managed to keep a quiet composure and logical outlook allowing her to escape relatively unscathed from the teasing. Well, teasing about _that_ anyway. No amount of composure it seemed could put an end to _bookworn_ , _know-it-all_ , _brown nose_ , _prude_ , or _mudblood_.

No. She didn’t need to go there. Not at half past three in the morning when she had another day ahead filled with double the classes. Harry’s teasing was brotherly anyway and never within earshot of someone who might maliciously tease her over such an affection. Ron hadn’t even realized there was fodder for that fire to tease her with. So. She would pull herself together, take a quiet shower, and study in the common room until the boys came down for breakfast. 

Awkwardly extricating herself from the tangled sheets, Hermione told herself that her decision to stay awake and not return to _Neverland_ had nothing to do with the fading impression of a taste on her lips. Perhaps eventually she’d believe it. Sighing, she continued into the bathroom to complete her planned ablutions.

Freshly showered and feeling worlds better for it Hermione ghosted into the common room and noted with surprise that she wasn’t the only one awake at four a.m. There, on the couch before the hearth sat a still pajama clad Harry James Potter, firelight reflecting in his round glasses as he started seemingly sightless. Concerned, Hermione set her bag down and edged slowly toward her friend.

“Harry?” She queried softly. “Are you okay?”

He looked up and smiled stiffly. “Yeah, just…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “What are you doing up anyway?”

Shrugging, Hermione sat beside him and replied, “Couldn’t sleep, and decided to study if I was going to be awake anyway. Are you sure you’re okay, Harry?”

Looking up at Hermione’s soft, concern-filled expression, Harry sighed. If anyone would understand, would listen without judgment, it was her. “It’s just…” He started, haltingly. Turning to face her fully, he continued, “I keep having nightmares. Growing up it was always about my parents… dying, I think. I’d hear my mother scream and see a flash of green, and then nothing.” 

Frowning, Hermione nodded for him to continue. 

“And now… now I see…” He shuddered, seeming lost, unwilling to continue. Sighing, Harry dropped his head into his hands, rubbing the middle of his forehead, and managed a weak smile of thanks when he felt Hermione’s small hand rub his shoulder comfortingly. 

“Have I ever explained to you _why_ I… am so drawn to To- Professor Riddle?” 

Harry tilted his head and shot her an amused half-smile.

“It’s not like that,” she chastised softly. “I recognized him the first time I saw him, the night we were sorted. I… I dream about him, Harry. I always have. I thought he was just a figment of my imagination, something my mind had dreamed up, and then, all of a sudden, there he was. In the flesh. Real. Right in front of me. And I…” Now it was Hermione’s turn to trail off. 

Interested, Harry sat straighter. “You’ve _always_ dreamed of him?”

“Yes, every night of my life. First it was just his eyes, then his voice was there too, and overtime he… solidified. But yes. Always.” 

They stared at each other, both turning over their thoughts and words, searching for answers. Agitated, Harry ran a hand through his messy black hair. “Do you think,” he started, “It’s possible that it’s related somehow? I don’t know how, but… it’s strange that we’ve both had nightly dreams each with consistent themes our whole lives. I’ve never heard of anyone else having dreams like ours.” 

Hermione nodded enthusiastically, ecstatic to have someone to share this with, someone to help her work it out. “I’ve been thinking about it since first year, and… this is mad, but I keep thinking about muggle religions and how many of them talk about reincarnation, and,” She fumbled with the collar of her shirt, pulling out a gold chain with a peculiar hourglass pendant. 

“What is that?” Harry breathed, interrupting her as he reached to touch the necklace, curious to see if the hourglass could turn within its frame. It certainly looked like it could. 

Hermione slapped his hand away and continued on without really acknowledging him. “This is a Time-Turner Harry, McGonagall gave it to me first term, its how I’ve been getting to all my lessons,”

“But- “

“ _Listen_ Harry. For me to be approved by the ministry to use this I had to study all the laws regarding time travel, I had to memorize them. Now, I don’t really believe in reincarnation, especially not the way muggle religions visualize it, but I’ve been studying time travel and in a very real way I have existed in duality all year. I’m in two places at once for every class. And… again, it’s mad, completely absurd, and theoretically speaking nearly impossible, I mean the odds-“ 

“Mione, Mione, wait. Just, slow down, back up, and start again. I have absolutely no idea what you’re saying to me right now.” 

“I’m saying what if someone, somehow, as inconceivable as it is, broke the timeline? As a rule with time travel, the present only exists as it does because the past – and whatever the traveler did there – has already happened in the present. It has to be that way, terrible things happen to wizards who mess with time. They tend to die, Harry, but the timeline, that is preserved, it’s nearly a law of nature.” 

Harry opened his mouth to speak, but Hermione burst out ardently. “What if they’re memories?” 

Harry’s mouth snapped shut, bewildered into silence.

“Just think about it Harry, logically. What if we’ve been here before? What if something changed, drastically, breaking the timeline before we were ever born and therefore changing our lives intrinsically? What if in our previous timeline your parents died, something traumatic enough that it affected your _soul_ to the point that you can’t forget. Even now when it never actually happened. And what if Tom wasn’t our teacher then? What if I met him some other way and he was so important to me that _my soul_ couldn’t forget about him, and that’s why I dream of him every night?” Hermione’s voice was earnest, her chocolate eyes solemn. 

Shaking his head numbly, Harry just gaped at her. “It’s insane, just… insane.”

Hermione pursed her lips but said nothing.

“You’re telling me that you think our souls are on their _second_ lifetime because someone fucked up and broke the timeline?” His tone was bewildered, but not disbelieving. Hermione was quiet for a moment, considering.

“Maybe it wasn’t a fuck-up.” She postulated, ignoring her typical response to profanity. “Consider it. What you dream about is horrible. So it’s conceivable – assuming that my theory holds a scrap of validity - that the timeline was altered on purpose. Perhaps to save lives.” She shrugged, “Really there is no way to know but I am oddly comforted that I’m not the only one with bizarre recurring dreams.” 

Harry’s smile warmed and grew. “Me too.”

 

-|-

 

She still nibbled on the Merlin-be-damned quill. It drove him mad. For decorum’s sake (of course) he had snapped at her over it (among other things) so many times in class the girl probably assumed by now that he hated her. Sometimes, he thought he did too. Actually, sometimes he knew he did. He hated her for being the doppelganger to _his_ Hermione. The identical features he could ignore. He hadn’t wanted her, craved her, or cared about her for her face or figure. It was just a body and the body simply housed the glory. They differed enough in various aspects of personality that he could have easily mentally separated them into the two wholly separate entities that they **_were_** if it _weren’t_ for those few shared idiosyncrasies. Like the damn quill. Like the way she tugged on her hair when she was thinking hard. The way she gesticulated when speaking on a topic she was passionate about. 

Frustrated, Tom focused on his breathing, as he always did when he felt his control slipping. He hadn’t thought it would be this hard. He’d seen - of course - the concern in the old coot’s eyes and hadn’t believed that Dumbledore could be right, not about this. He had been so sure that he knew himself on this topic, so sure that he had let her go. 

Apparently not. 

Resisting the threatening scowl Tom kept his face carefully neutral as he reached into the hidden compartment of the desk in his home study, withdrawing with two corked glass vials tinkling merrily against each other in his palm. Slowly uncurling long pale fingers, Tom studied the swirling contents while vaguely wondering if his keeping these hidden had actually been proof all along that no matter what he may tell himself, he hasn’t been indifferent to Hermione Jean Granger since he was a teenager himself. For the first time he found himself tempted to open them, tempted to watch. These memories were her legacy, the only tangible thing he had left of her. 

Tilting his hand, Tom watched the twin vials roll gently back and forth, back and forth. Tempted though he was, he didn’t plan to actually watch them. Holding the vials was enough, seeing – once again – her neat hand (that _this_ Hermione hadn’t quite matured into yet) was enough. He had never thought highly of those who needed comfort. Perhaps that was why he kept them hidden; shame. An interesting thought, and one he would dissect at a later time. At the moment, all he really wanted was to not think for a change. Tom tried not to remember that day, the day she had gifted him with her memories, the last time he had seen her.

_“Here,” she whispered, pulling away from his kiss but remaining close enough that her lips brushed his as she spoke. “I want you to have these.”_

_Tom felt her place two vials, one after the other, into an outer pocket of his school robes. “Why?” He murmured._

_“Because I want you to know. You deserve to know what you’ve come to mean to me. I know your life has been impossibly dark, and I just…” She chocked, words trailing. Sniffling, Hermione stood straighter, her face determined, and continued, voice strong. “One vial is for you, I want you to see yourself as I see you. The other is for me. When you find me again I want you to give those back. I want you to show me.”_

_“Hermione… I’ll be old enough to be your grandfather.” He remarked, attempting a sardonic twist of his lips._

_“I don’t care.”_  

Pulling out of his reverie, Tom rolled the vials, one over the other, again and again and again, the repetitive motion of his fingers calming. No, he didn’t plan to watch the memories and see himself through her eyes. Nor did he intend to show _her_. Things were different now, and no matter how her counterpart vexed him, she still deserved the free, uncomplicated life she had. And his life was running smoothly without her. Best for them both if he let the past die.

Steady hands returned the vials to their compartment, hidden door closing with a soft _snap_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I'm sure you guys can tell, I really don't intend to spend a whole lot of time on their schooldays 
> 
> Feedback is always welcome! Hope you enjoyed the latest installment.


	4. School Days Pt.I

_The walls of his room had been turned into chalkboard, and were covered in_ _arthmancy_ _, runes, and diagrams. She spun slowly, trying to take in the incredible amount of brilliant work that had been accomplished overnight – literally. “You did all of this…? How?”_

 

November 29th 1993

 

Hermione smiled thankfully at Harry’s encouraging nod as they stood outside the DADA classroom waiting for the current lesson to end. They had continued to talk as the early morning waxed. Harry knew now, knew that her feelings toward Riddle were complicated and undefined and yet still more than a mere fancy. Every time she clapped eyes on Tom Riddle it was simultaneously boon and torment. After listening to her babble for a solid quarter hour without interrupting, Harry had quietly – but insistently – urged her to confront him about it. He had spent the next three quarters of the hour convincing her that it was the only way. Maybe Riddle felt a _knowing_ about her too, maybe he didn’t, but she wouldn’t know if she didn’t ask. Eventually she had conceded to the logic of his argument, but with the addendum that now was simply _not_ the time. Harry had balked at that until Hermione admitted that her dreams were becoming more and more… explicit… and there was absolutely no way in hell that he – a man three times her age – would have a conversation about _that_ with a minor. Then it was Harry’s turn to concede her point – and blush madly while he was at it. 

Eventually they compromised. Agreeing that her seventeenth birthday would be the day. Loving her like a brother, Harry wasn’t fond of all the mental and emotional turmoil this caused within her, and for her sake wanted it resolved sooner rather than later. After listening to him, she had decided that he was right; she _deserved_ to know, and to finally have some peace – or at least a happier chaos. 

The heavy classroom door swung open, admitting a stream of disgruntled looking seventh years. Hermione had heard that Riddle’s NEWT level lessons were absolutely brutal and so wasn’t too surprised by the expressions. Personally, she couldn’t wait. She’d always loved a challenge and – flying lessons aside – had always found Riddle’s lessons to be the most genuinely challenging. Professor Snape skewed everything in favor of the Slytherins and marked against the Gryffindor students for truly petulant and ridiculous reasons. So, she didn’t consider it _genuinely_ difficult to receive an ‘ _O_ ’ from the potions professor. 

Walking down the side aisle with Harry and Ron as comforting presences, Hermione looked up at Professor Riddle through the curtain of her hair. His back – broad and strong – was to the class, bent slightly with his hands pressed flat to the desk, hair tumbled to hide his eyes. Godric, he was handsome. How did he do that? That man was _seventy years old_ but he looked like a man in his early thirties, in his prime, healthy, virile, powerful, strong and magnificent. He was all long, strong lines, pale skin, and dark hair with a strikingly handsome face, and fathomless stormy gray eyes, lined by thick dark lashes and framed with strong arched brows. And now that she thought about it, how in Merlin’s name was the man still single? 

… _Was_ the man still single? 

Floored, Hermione realized that she had never considered that. Just as she wasn’t going to consider why that thought made her angry.

She was shaken from her semi-disturbing train of thought when Ron nudged her with his elbow, silently telling her to take her seat at the far end of the three-person desk. Sliding into her spot, Hermione was careful to sit slightly back from the desk and to let her school robe fall to the floor on her left side, shielding the space beneath her seat from view of the other side of the room. Harry sat beside her in the middle seat, Ron taking the outer edge. 

Taking the opportunity provided by the professor’s still turned back, Harry took out his school supplies and surreptitiously dumped the dead rat from his bag onto his lap before handing it quietly to Hermione, who stilled as Professor Riddle turned to face the class. 

Nervously fingering the tail of the rat on her lap, Hermione tried to focus on what Tom was saying. Licking her lips she gave up temporarily on paying attention to the lesson as she eyed the classroom for Nagini, the serpent was around here somewhere. She didn’t have to wait long. Soon enough the great python was slithering her way around the room. Her circuit would end at Hermione, with her rat treat.

 

-|-

  

Tom smirked at the board in front of him. Gryffindors really were so obvious. It amazed him that none of the other students had realized yet that Hermione (these days with Harry or Ron’s help) fed Nagini every single period. And had been doing so for over a year at this point. 

The day before she had brought in that first rat Tom had spied the Malfoy boy and two of his goons (though not the oafish ones) tormenting her. The girl had stood defiant, refusing to be cowed. In that moment, little second year though she was, he had remembered that the same iron that had shaped _his_ Hermione existed in this one too. The difference was that this Hermione had never had that strength tested, had never been put through the fire to forge into something better. But even still, it was there. 

So while he had decided to intervene, he chose to do so indirectly. A hissed command to Nagini had the great serpent sliding to Hermione’s side, where she raised aggressively, fangs bared in a challenge, venom spit (though harmlessly wide as instructed) as she hissed and mimed a strike. The boys – having stood still at her initial approach - scrambled comically over each other in effort to escape. 

Hermione meanwhile took a deep breath, licked her lips, and spoke to the snake softly. “Thank you, Nagini”. The great serpent merely looked at her. No longer aggressive but curious about this little human her master had bid her to protect. Raising her wand Hermione vanished the puddle of venom before someone could stumble into it accidentally, and then departed with a last nod to Nagini. 

Until of course, her DADA double the next afternoon. Tom had ignored the offering, knowing as he did why she had brought it in the first place, and assumed that that would be the end of it. It seemed however, that there must be an ulterior motive for the frequent gifts as they kept happening.

Finished with the assignment list, Tom turned around to finish his lesson. And bid _Miss Granger_ to stay behind as he dismissed the rest of class. Settling himself behind the desk he waited for the students to file out and for Hermione to approach him. He merely glanced up at her once; face cautious, book bag held with loose fingers. He knew her schedule, and how she needed to avoid being seen as she dithered with time to attend the lesson happening simultaneously with his, so he’d keep this short. 

“Rabbit is more of a treat for Nagini than rat, Miss Granger, you’re dismissed.”

 

-|-

 

“What did Riddle want?” Harry asked, Ron leaning forward interestedly as Hermione stopped over to where they sat playing wizards chess in the common room. Huffing, she dropped her bag on the floor and sat heavily in the empty seat. 

“ _Professor_ Riddle, Harry,” she corrected automatically, ignoring the anticipated (and nearly ritual) eye roll. “And it would seem that Nagini would prefer rabbit, instead of the rat we’ve been giving her.” She responded dryly. 

“That’s it? That’s all he said?” Ron asked disbelievingly. 

Hermione nodded. “Do you think we could find any rabbit snake treats at that pet store in Hogsmead?” 

“Probably,” Ron muttered as Harry rose from his seat.

“I’ll get the cloak.” 

“Thanks Harry.”

 

-|-

 

December 26th 1994

 

 

Hermione paced furiously around her dormitory; fine blue dress flowing, still absolutely livid with Ron. How dare he? How dare he! Fingers - trembling with the force of her rage – raked through her hair. Dislodging yet more of the pins that had held her elaborate bun in place. The ball had been lovely, truly lovely. In point of fact, it was the first time since school started back that she’d enjoyed herself. But then _Ronald_ – in his typical fashion – had put his jealousy in front of everything else. 

The room was too small. She couldn’t move enough, it was too crowded, the air too stagnant, she was working herself into a proper frenzy. And she had to get out of here. Feet bare she loped down the stairs, out of the portrait and into the freedom of the corridors. And she kept moving, no longer aware of where she was going just that it needed to be away. She had spent the last four months wound up so tight it was a wonder she hadn’t imploded. She honestly wasn’t sure how much more stress she could – 

“Miss Granger?” The cool voice washed over her like welcome rain. And for the first time since September first when she’d seen his chair at the feast filled by a stranger, Hermione felt the knots in her stomach uncoil, her shoulders fall from their tensed position. Tom Riddle had returned to Hogwarts. Happy Christmas indeed, though she supposed it was well after midnight now. 

Sighing out the peculiar feeling of relief, she turned toward him. Godric, but the man was a sight for sore eyes. “Professor,” she greeted, eyes alight. 

His eyes raked over her form. Taking in her disheveled hair, smudged makeup, wrinkled dress, and pale bare feet - that were actually getting quite cold. She must be a right sight to see. The slight concern in her ever-aloof professor’s eyes confirmed that assumption. But she was so glad to see him she couldn’t even be bothered to be embarrassed. 

“Are you well?” he asked, clearly feeling the need to engage her.

A smile ghosted across her lips as she nodded. “Yes, sir. I am well enough.” She desperately wanted to embrace him, as she did in her dreams. Wanted to feel the solid warmth of his body. Wanted to find out if his smell was as intoxicating in real life as she imagined it was. “How were your travels?” 

He tilted his head slightly at the question Hermione hadn’t been able to stop herself from asking. Lips twitching as he resisted a smile, Tom replied blithely, “Well enough.”

Hermione’s cheeks flushed as he parroted her words back to her, though she couldn’t understand why. Thankfully she was saved from having to come up with anything to say when Nagini slithered past her master toward Hermione. Presuming the serpent’s intent, she held her hands out and let the forked tongue flick against her skin. “I’m sorry I don’t have anything for you, I didn’t know you’d be back today.” Hermione kept her eyes firmly on the snake as she spoke, but she heard Tom’s _hmm_ and glanced up at him. 

“We’re not really back,” He stated smoothly, while one hand rubbed his jaw. Hermione noted that he looked tired. There were circles under his eyes; clothes were travel worn and less than immaculate. And for the first time that she had ever seen he was scruffy, wavy hair wind-blow. Huh. It was a surprisingly good look for him. 

She swallowed the saliva that had unaccountably entered her mouth while shifting her stance uncomfortably. Damn. 

“I just have a meeting with the headmaster then we’re off again. Remus will continue as your defense instructor through the end of next term and I will resume the position again in September. Don’t worry Miss Granger, we’ll have you well prepared for your OWLs.” A smirk teased at his lips.

“Oh,” she wanted to hit herself. ‘Oh,’ that’s it? _That’s_ what she managed as a reply? Godric save her from looking like an inarticulate fool. She’d never been that before. His smirk fell at her continued silence. 

“Are you quite sure you’re all right, Miss Granger? Forgive me, but you don’t seem well.” The concern in his softly spoken words cracked something inside of her and she spoke without considering her words. 

“Yes, I just had a row with Ron, is all. Haven’t exactly calmed down yet.” Why? Why why _why_ was she telling her professor this? His expression rippled into a neutral mask. Oh this was mortifying. And the worst part? She was still speaking. “He seemed angry with me for going to the ball with someone else, but he never asked me, not really, so he has no right to behave that way. And,” she cut herself off. “I’m so sorry professor, you don’t need to listen to me babble. Please don’t let me keep you from your meeting.” 

“It’s all right, I’m early anyway.”

Her eyes widened in surprise. He was wiling to stand there – clearly exhausted and most likely hungry as well – and listen to her rant about what an incorrigible prat Ronald was being? Maybe Harry was right. Perhaps Riddle had odd memories of her too. She fought down the explosion of mutant butterflies taking place in her stomach.

She shrugged in response to him. “That’s really all there is to it.” 

“I take it you went with Mister Potter then?” 

“Umm, no actually.” Why was her stomach sinking? She hadn’t done anything wrong. “I went with Viktor. Viktor Krum, that is. Harry is my best friend but really more like my brother than anything else.” 

“Ahh,” he responded sagely. “The drama of youth. I can’t claim to miss it.” 

She laughed softly, feeling lighter as she took in his relaxed stance and half-smile.

“I look forward to leaving it behind.” She quipped. Now it was his turn to chuckle softly. 

“Well, as pleasant a diversion as this has been, I really must go.” Conjuring a slip of paper he held it out for her to take. “In case you’re stopped in the halls on your way back to Gryffindor tower.” 

“Thank you,” she murmured, eyes quickly scanning the paper. “Um, Professor?” She called, stopping Tom before he could turn from her. “This is the Headmaster’s signature.” 

“Is it?” His lips curved in a wicked smile. Her heart rate picked up in anticipation at the expression. Smiling slightly in return she nodded to him and turned to head back. She had made it to the far end of the corridor when his voice stopped her. 

“Oh, and Miss Granger?” He wanted until her eyes locked with his. “Don’t wish your life away.” 

Not knowing how to respond to that, Hermione said simply, “Happy Christmas, Professor.”

 


	5. School Days Pt. II

 

 

_“I feel like, at it’s core, magic is the natural ability to manipulate physics, to bend the laws of nature to your will. Because really, what is apparition? A muggle scientist would describe that phenomenon as a one-way trasversable wormhole. Mathematics support the possibility. But they can’t create it. We can. Of course it’s more complicated than that, but…”He smiled slightly as she interrupted him. “I agree with you, though! Wizards didn’t always use wands and spells. We know wizards are born, I’ve wondered before if it’s a… genetic mutation. Evolution.” She was thrilled. She’d never been able to discuss these theories with anyone else before. It was tantalizing._

 

 

 

December 26th 1994

  

Tom stalked through the halls toward the second floor girls’ lavatory… and more importantly the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets. It was times like these when he wished he’d stayed his original course. Times like these, and encounters like _that_ with Dumbledore. But no. That way hadn’t worked; he’d seen that with his own two eyes. And releasing the basilisk would have harmed Hermione in time. So he let the beast slumber. Ordered it to slumber. Which guaranteed the labs he’d established there remained undisturbed. Which was quite convenient actually. The wards around the chamber were strong enough to keep all his experiments both contained and concealed but didn’t interfere with his often-delicate work. 

But tonight his destination was home. Remus was bedding down in the chambers Tom typically occupied here so he had to take the long way – via the chamber. It had happened to be that Salazar Slytherin had left more to his heir than legend told. A secluded hideaway in the Scottish hills was also bequeathed to him. For Salazar it had been a retreat - for Tom it was home, the only place in this world that had ever been exclusively his.

 

-|-

 

September 19th 1996

 

Hermione woke with a gasp, cheeks flushed as her body rode the edge of her orgasm. Melting back into the bed, she took deep breaths, eyes closed, pinching the bridge of her nose. This was beyond ridiculous. She was fairly certain _these_ dreams weren’t memories – though they certainly borrowed from them. She chose to consider this one a birthday present. And thank Godric, today was the day, one way or another, answers would be hers.

 

-|-

 

 

Tom looked up, startled, when the door to his office slammed open and then closed again. Hermione stood there, staring at him with an unreadable expression. Her gaze so forceful it was damn near a glare. She looked so much like _his_ Hermione at the moment, magnificent in her intensity, it took him a moment to be able to speak. “How can I help you Miss Granger?” Her hands were behind her back. He heard the lock click as she stood statue still. “Miss Granger?” He queried, rising from his chair and moving to rest a hip on the side of his desk, arms folded, patient. He could wait. 

The silence stretched for several minutes. Eventually she cleared her throat – twice. He raised an eyebrow.

“How do I know you?” Her voice was husky, nearly hoarse. “Please,” She cut him off as he opened his mouth to give the obvious reply - _I’m your teacher_. “Please don’t. Please tell me the truth. I want to know why I’ve dreamed of you my whole life… I would know your eyes anywhere. I see them every night. I always have. Your voice is more familiar to me than my own, and I’d swear…” She trailed off, her voice breaking.

Tom’s eyes had widened as she spoke. His heart pounded in his chest. Hardly daring to believe what he was hearing. A stray tear slipped down her cheek, glistening in the afternoon light. His stomach clenched, resisting the desire to walk to her and wipe it away.

Voice thick with suppressed emotion she continued. “I’d swear I know what you taste like.” Her gaze leveled on his, unwavering.

Now it was his turn to clear his throat (twice) and fight for self-control. “Miss Granger,” He started, before being interrupted - again.

“I’m seventeen. As of today, I am of legal age according to the Ministry of Magic, an adult. I’ll have the honest answer, if you please.” Her lower lip trembled, control clearly fraying. This had obviously been bothering her since her first day at Hogwarts. She had also been wise enough to realize that he would never tell a minor the truth of their bizarre connection. Especially in regards to that last bit. However, one aspect of propriety still stood between them. 

“Strictly speaking, yes, you are an adult.” She stood straighter, hoping for the explanation, clearly choosing to ignore the ‘strictly speaking’ he had started with. “However,” She crumbled back against the door. “You are still a student at this establishment, and I am still your professor.” At his words and unflinching tone, her control started to break. Tears began to spill rapidly as she gave a sharp nod. Turning back to the door Hermione fumbled with the lock, clearly desperate to escape as a strangled sob rose in her throat. Tom flinched at the pain-filled sound. “Hermione,” He called softly. She froze. Like every other instructor he had always called her ‘Miss Granger.’ Her given name tasted like honey on his tongue. She glanced over her shoulder, refusing to turn completely and release the door handle she had finally unlocked. “Come back.” Her back snapped straight, disbelieving. “After you sit for your NEWTs, when your classes are over and you are no longer my student. Come back. Ask me then.” She hesitated, licked her lips, and nodded tersely as she opened the door and fled through his classroom out to the corridor. 

Swallowing hard, Tom sank into his chair and rested his forehead on his fingertips. Desperately trying to rein in his newly kindled hope. It was going to be a long two years. Focusing on his breathing, Tom gradually regained complete control. Glancing toward his office’s fireplace he huffed an irritated breath at Nagini. She hadn’t even twitched, much less managed to work up a decent hiss when Hermione had stormed in.

“You’re useless,” He hissed to his loyal familiar. Her only response was to uncoil slightly in her place by the hearth. Apparently he had just been dismissed. Well… clearly _someone_ wouldn’t be receiving her preferred treats for quite some time. Tom anticipated that she wouldn’t be so blithe about _that_.

 

 

June 3rd 1998

 

Escaping stealthily from the Great Hall – and the party therein – Hermione walked calmly up the stairs, ignoring the various couples snogging (or more) in alcoves and classrooms near the festivities. ~~Tom~~ Professor Riddle had left the graduation celebration fifteen minutes ago. He was waiting in his office, she knew it, could feel it in her bones. His voice, words spoken nearly two years ago, whispered through her brain. _‘Hermione… Come back.’_ Goosebumps raised on her flesh just remembering the way her name sounded on his lips. Blood rushed from her brain and traveled south every time she remembered. But at the same time it was soothing. How could something as simple as his voice (saying her name) both arouse and comfort her in one fell swoop? She didn’t know, but she planned to find out. 

Hermione kicked off her heels and scooped them up with one hand while her other grabbed the skirts of her dress. Lifting both, she bolted through the corridors. Tom was waiting.

She didn’t see, across the Great Hall, Harry raise his glass to her in a salute.

 

-|-

 

He couldn’t wait in his office… it was too far from the corridor… too claustrophobic tonight. The early summer night felt oddly stifling and the office wouldn’t soothe him. So he waited in his classroom, leaning against the table he used on occasion in there; facing the door to the corridor. Tom sprung to standing as the door hinges groaned, swinging inward, revealing Hermione. Merlin, she was beautiful. She entered slowly, almost cautiously. Feet bare on the stone, shoes dangling from her fingers. Her cheeks were flushed, chest rising and falling impressively as she attempted to catch her breath, hair falling free around her face, champagne-silver silky dress flowing around her as she moved steadily toward him. And he realized that he was moving toward her as well, matching her measured stride. They stopped with only a hairs breadth of distance between them. “You came.” He whispered hoarsely, hand reaching to brush stray strands of hair from her face, and resting there when the task was completed. 

“Yes,” She whispered back, voice just as strained. “I couldn’t stay away” Her eyes closed blissfully as he caressed her face. Her hands grasped at his waist, clutching convulsively. Hermione’s breath caught in her chest as Tom slowly raised his other hand and cupped her face, leaning down toward her lips. She closed her eyes, waiting for contact. His breath ghosted across her lips, he was right there! …And waiting to see her response. Rising up on her toes Hermione touched her lips to his. An explosion took place in the back of her mind. The gentle touch and release of their lips was magnificent. She had been right; she did know how he tasted. She also knew that somehow, somewhere, she and Tom had stood like this before, had kissed like this before. The only difference was that this time, she didn’t taste tears. 

Greedily sucking a breath in through her nose, Hermione tilted her head as their kiss deepened. Godric save her, a barely begun kiss and already she was addicted. His smooth lips parted, and hers along with them, groaning as his tongue swiped at hers. She couldn’t get enough; there was no such thing as enough. He held her tightly as she pressed her body to his, fingers tangling in his hair, kiss now boarding on desperate. Tom’s hands moved from the small of her back to lightly grasp her upper arms, holding her still as he pulled away from her lips. For a few moments they simply stood, breathing each other’s air, regaining composure.

“I take it you still want answers then,” He commented cheekily. Hermione simply raised an eyebrow at him. Hadn’t they covered this already? He smiled, almost disbelievingly, and looked down toward their feet. The genuine expression changed his face so much her breath stilled at the sight. She knew that he was aware he was attractive, and being not just _a_ Slytherin but _the_ Slytherin, he certainly knew how to use that to his advantage. Still, Hermione didn’t think he realized just how breathtakingly beautiful he was when he smiled. It was striking.

“I’d rather not have that conversation here.” He purred, the sound causing gooseflesh to break across her skin. “Would you be comfortable accompanying me to my home?” He slanted a look at her from beneath his considerable lashes. The gooseflesh on her skin was suddenly accompanied by a riot in her stomach and ringing in her ears. 

“Yes,” she breathed, eyes never breaking contact with his. Tom swallowed thickly, nodding in return as he stepped to the side and gestured toward his office with a wave, clearly indicating that she should enter first. Hermione’s steps were confident, no matter the mutiny taking place in her body. She had waited a lifetime for this.

 

-|-

 

Stepping into Tom’s home from the hearth, Hermione’s freshly drawn breath caught in her throat at the sight. The room she had stepped into was large, open, and a strange combination of rectangle and oblong. The stone the wall to her right was straight while to her left stone pillars created a curved connect-the-dot barrier. Floor to ceiling dark gauzy curtains filled the spaces in-between, whispering over the glossy obsidian floor as the evening breeze drifted in. Inhaling a deep breath of mountain air she stepped further into the room to better see her surrounds. As it happened the stone fireplace was open on three sides, and positioned halfway center of the room that was apparently twice as long as she had initially believed. Exotic carpets softened the spaces where plush leather and polished wood created a comfortable sitting area. 

“Come,” She heard Tom’s rich voice at the same time she felt a gentle touch on her arm.

Abandoning her assessment Hermione followed him across the room to a partly open door. He held it open for her, then shut it firmly as she entered his study…. Or library? Books covered the walls above closed wooden cupboards, the only space free of books was the single –though admittedly rather large - window behind the massive mahogany desk. Floating candles provided a soft, flickering warm glow. Reaching the front of the desk, they stopped and looked at each other. Tom’s gaze was intense, Hermione’s heart hammering. The silence stretched.

“You asked how you knew me.”

“Yes,” She whispered. 

He smirked, the expression somehow bitter, affectionate, and sardonic all at once. “The first time I met you, you and Potter were attempting to assassinate me.” His smirk widened as her eyes widened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry about the delay guys. Life decided to hit me with a sledgehammer and nail me down while it was at it. BUT we're getting to the good stuff now, the past is nearly here! And I will do my best to get back to weekly updates. Hope you guys enjoy and please comment! I love hearing your thoughts.


	6. Freefall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> SUPER SHORT CHAPTER! I decided to cut this one here so that the next chapter will be the beginning of the past instead of including it here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay guys just wanted to let you know that we will be experiencing Hermione's memories, NOT watching them. This does mean that until further notice, everything will be from Hermione's POV. So it's all what she thinks, which I want to clarify, is NOT what Tom thinks (even if she thinks it is). Got it? No? Why couldn't I keep this simple? Yeah... I ask myself that all the time. 
> 
> See end chapter notes for: Confessions of the Author

June 3rd 1998

 

Fingers clenched around the vial of memories, Hermione had one – rather ridiculous all things considered – thought: That’s my handwriting. Of course it was. Who else’s would it be? Tom had already told her that _she_ had given him two vials of memories. Though only one was intended for her he had offered them both – and it had not escaped her notice that both vials were still sealed. He had never opened either – including the one meant for him. If she were inclined to be honest with herself she’d admit that that made her a little irate. Somehow she knew, _she knew_ , that he had refused the memories because he had no hope. No hope that she would ever return to him. So instead of taking the offered comfort he had shoved it away, had tried to move on. Accepting the vials in the first place had been nothing more than appeasement in what he believed to be their final moments together. Her ability to comprehend that train of thought in no way meant she empathized with it. Maybe one day she’d forgive him for doubting her.

Maybe. 

She glanced at the pocket watch on the desk then flicked her gaze to Tom as he chuckled, the sound not at all happy, his eyes fixed on the watch as he began to speak. “I give you the mausoleum of all hope and desire, which will fit your individual needs no better than it did mine or my father’s before me; I give it to you not that you may remember time, but that you might forget it now and then for a moment-“

“And not spend all of your breath trying to conquer it.” She breathed, seeing his lips curl as she picked up the quote.

“Because no battle is ever won…” He trailed off. 

She smiled, deciding to skip ahead, “… and victory is an illusion of philosophers and fools. William Faulkner, _The Sound and the Fury._ A muggle author. I’d say I’m impressed but I can’t actually claim surprise. “ Her smile faded as a sense of déjà vu washed over her. She tossed off the feeling with a shake of her head. “You know, that quote kept turning around my head when Professor McGonagall gave me the Time-Turner.” 

This time his chuckle sounded more genuine. “I was honestly quite surprised when Albus gave his approval for you to have use of one… again. You caused quite a bit of havoc last time around.”

“Last time around… when I wanted to kill you, apparently?”

“Yes. I’m quite sure all pertinent information is there.” He commented, gesturing to the vial in her hand. “You are nothing if not through.” She felt her cheeks burn as she recalled her many overly long parchments, and extra paragraphs to clarify her answers on every test.

A strained silence descended over them. Not awkward or uncomfortable, exactly, just the feeling of standing on a precipice… knowing that the next step sends you over the edge. Swallowing, Hermione locked his gaze with hers. “I’m ready,” she stated, voice and gaze unwavering. “And I’m doing this alone.” 

He nodded graciously, “Of course.” 

Eyes narrowing at his suddenly cool tone she followed him to the pensieve, studying his detached features as she poured the memories. His tone and expression were masks. He seemed ready to defend himself. Seemed to think he needed a wall between them. Stepping forward, Hermione rested a hand against his jaw, and leaned up to touch her lips to his. He met her midway, lips firm and soliciting against hers. She pulled away breathless, and without giving herself a moment to reconsider dived into the memories. 

_Her_ memories.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Confessions of the Author:  
> *Clears throat* So this story has been bouncing around in my brain-pan for about two years. Originally it was just "the past" portion. And I don't really write in chronological order, I write the scenes as they come, so it does take awhile for a story to flush out. The headers in the first four chapters are import because A.) They are Hermione's 'Soul-Memories' and B.) They are excerpts from the first scenes I ever wrote for this story. Also - fun fact - this was originally a tragedy. All they were going to have was a few short months (or weeks) before he went back where he belonged, and actually most of the scenes that I wrote were in Riddle's POV. Eventually I asked myself 'what would happen when the timeline catches up? Would that be it? One and done? Wham-bam-thank-you-ma'am?' And then I had the epiphany that this is mother-fucking fanfiction, and I can do whatever the Goddamn hell I want. Sooo... "the present" was born. Stay tuned for more Confessions of the Author. ;)


	7. What Was. Pt. I - Calm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To clarify on Tom. While "redeemed" my Tom is not an angel. I don't think Tom Marvolo Riddle is capable of being "good" all the way through. He's more of a chaotic neutral, with an eye out for himself and those he chooses to care about. The "experiments" that I briefly mentioned in Ch. 5 are relevant to why he has the body of a thirty year old. He absolutely still, er... "dabbles" with dark magic. He found another way after he came away from the future armed with information about his future self and some of those failures. So yeah, he's old enough to be her grandfather - he just doesn't look like it. ;) Something I think we can all be glad about.

\--- March 2nd 1997 ---

Hermione tried to focus on the crackling sound of the brown paper bag as it inflated and deflated with her breathing. She _had_ been calm, almost disturbingly so. She had been calm when she and Harry had stopped on the edge of the forest and she’d begun her rune work, carving them into the ground with her wand, tethering it to them with hair and blood from Harry and herself, creating an anchor that would take them home. Without that anchor she and Harry would have been stuck in 1944. Time-Turners only worked backward. There was no spell or device that could take one to the future, only the past. And she had had no desire to be stuck in the past. The anchor was only logical. There was no other way. It was that, or live through the progression of time and be nearly eighty years old the next time she saw 1997 again. Supposing she survived that long.

 

And she had been calm.

 

She had been calm when she’d thrown the Time-Turner’s gold chain around Harry’s neck as well as her own. She had been calm as the world spun around them. She had been calm as she’d retrieved the chain and looked up only to realize she was staring down a wand. She had been calm when she realized that the wand she was staring down was a rather famous pale yew. And she had been calm when she’d decided that yup, she had been right in the first place, this was complete bullocks. Barely a millisecond into the past and it was already blowing up in their faces. She had been calm when she began muttering the incantation that would activate the runes and pull her and Harry back (or rather, forward). She had been calm when her wand flew out of her pocket. She had been calm when she’d felt a warm hand grasp her forearm with a grip like a vice. She had been calm when she had landed - quite gracelessly – on top of two male forms. She had been calm – and relieved – to discover both of them unconscious. Harry from a nasty knock to his head upon landing, and Riddle presumably from having both body and soul torn from the his place in the fabric of the universe and dumped somewhere he didn’t belong – and should never have been able to reach.

 

But she had been calm.

 

She had been calm as she’d checked over Harry and then made sure neither of them would wake up anytime soon. She had been calm as she’d sent her patronus to alert Dumbledore. She had been calm upon arriving at Order Headquarters.

 

Yet now, here she sat, snug and safe in the generous Black kitchen, Mrs. Weasley fussing as she hyperventilated into a bag against the backdrop of humming conversation that really did remind her of bees. Hermione had always considered it a mixed blessing that she kept her head in tense and dangerous situations. The downside of course was that once the adrenaline began to seep out of her system she started to shake uncontrollably. Felt the panic as an aftereffect, and on occasion hyperventilated.

 

Like now.

 

“That’s it dear, just breathe.” The Weasley matron’s voice came through to her as though muffled by cotton and the ringing that currently filled her ears.

 

But the hand placed gently on Hermione’s back was both warm and welcome, a much better point to hone in on than the crackling bag. Deciding to focus on the warmth she counted seconds to time her breathing. One, two, three, four, five breathe in and one, two three four five breathe out. Slow and steady wins the race. Yes. She could feel it now. The oxygen and carbon dioxide were beginning to balance, the feeling of suffocation fading. Her body still vibrated from the evacuating adrenaline, but her panic had calmed, ears beginning to move back toward full function.

 

“Nice and slow, that’s it dear, easy does it.” Molly continued to coach her. Tuning her out for the moment Hermione paced her breaths for a few more rounds. Once again feeling steady – mentally at least – she lowered the bag and turned to look into Mrs. Weasley’s concerned face.

 

“Has Dumbledore said anything yet?”

 

“No dear.” The matron’s face was concerned, her hand now stroking Hermione’s riotous curls in an attempt to mollify. “He’s still upstairs.”

 

The sound of chairs scraping across the stone floor alerted her to other order members settling in. They’d been hovering by the door that led into the house, allowing her some space to breathe and an escape to the back ‘garden’ if that wasn’t enough. Harry sat beside her, a few pats to her shoulder an awkward attempt to comfort. She smiled at him weakly, wondering if the others knew whom their unexpected guest was. Or if they only knew he was a threat. No way to know. She couldn’t ask without having them return the question. And Dumbledore _had_ told them not to say anything, to let him figure it out and inform the order.

 

As though summoned by her thoughts, a weary Albus Dumbledore stood in the doorway, looking like he felt every minute of his considerable years. Heaving a heavy sigh, he moved farther into the kitchen, every eye on him as he came to a stop at the head of the table. Sharp, twinkling blue eyes fixed on her for a few seconds, before moving to take in the rest of his captive audience.

 

“There is no immediate threat. However, I think it best to operate as though this location is compromised. Molly,” Blue eyes flashed to the Weasley matron. “and Arthur have assured me that The Burrow is capable of accommodating the Order. This house needs to be cleared of our presence by morning. You all know what to do. I will return Mr. Potter and Ms. Granger to Hogwarts. Kingsley, if you would be so kind as to wait for my return, we need to discuss modifications to our security operations.”

 

Hermione stood with the rest, looking without seeing as organized chaos erupted around her. Feeling oddly cocooned from the world around her, she quietly followed Harry and Dumbledore to the drawing room, standing passively as the headmaster reconnected the floo, and disappearing into roaring green flames with a clear shout of “Hogwarts Lemon Drop!”

 

 

\--- March 9th 1997 ---

 

 

Boys! She was going to kill them. Both of them. Sure, Ron had been in the hospital wing for over a week and sure, Harry had been hit with a bludger. But really. Was it that hard? Surely, _surely_ , rational thought wasn’t that hard. But nooooooo, apparently being attached to a penis means that yes, it IS in fact just _that_ difficult to use even a smidgen of logic. Is a smidgen really so much to ask? She honestly didn’t think so.

 

Pausing outside the infirmary doors, Hermione drew in several deep breaths, asking the founders, Merlin, and any and every deity supposed to exist to please, _please_ , grant her patience and strength. They’re only boys, after all, and apparently can’t help their own foolhardy actions. Godric, if only.

 

“If you two are quite finished being daft, and seemingly making a go at passively committing _suicide_ , we really do have better things to do.” Hermione bit out venomously as she strode into the room, catching Ronald mid-bite into yet another chocolate frog. She knew she wasn’t being fair. Ron hadn’t intended to swallow poison (right awful birthday, honestly) and Harry obviously would have dodged the bludger if he’d been aware of it careening toward his head. Exhaustion and stress were cruel masters however, and right now they were driving her hard, making it difficult to empathize.

 

Ron sucked in a breath, inadvertently drawing in bits of candy as well as air and promptly began hacking. Harry was eyeing her with concerned eyes. She held his gaze, refusing to fidget and show any sign of discomfort, knowing that he’d already noted the extra frizz to her hair, the bruised looking bags under her eyes, pallor edging toward sickly.

 

Ignoring him, she swallowed her disgust with “the half-blood prince” and cast a quick _muffliato_. They must not be overheard. Pulling the ragged edges of her fraying composure together, Hermione took a deep breath before continuing.

 

“Harry, you are clinging like a limpet to the idea of Draco Malfoy being a Death Eater, and considering the fine kettle of fish in front of us I strongly suggest you stop obsessing and bloody well leave off! And you,” Rounding on Ron she crossed her arms, “Knowing just how many girls have tried to slip Harry a love potion, why in the name of Merlin did you eat that chocolate without checking it for foreign substances?” Ron’s flushing face clashed frightfully with his hair, while Harry’s brows had come together in a manner indicative of irritation.

 

“No!” She snapped, stopping Harry before he could speak. “Just… no, Harry. Leave Draco Malfoy alone.”

 

“Oy, Mione, what the bloody hell is wrong with you? If Harry thinks Malfoy is-“

 

“It doesn’t matter, Ronald!” She screeched. Throwing a withering glare at Harry, Hermione cocked out a hip and uncrossed her arms, one hand coming to rest on a hip. Her patent stubborn stance. They both knew it.

 

“Seriously Mione, what is going on?”

 

Sighing, Hermione looked up to the ceiling. Concentrating on the ribbed arches she spoke slow and calm.

 

“I can’t tell you that. For two reasons. Firstly, I am honestly not sure what is happening myself, and secondly – even if I were – Dumbledore told me not to talk about it. To anyone. Even you.” Lowering her eyes to Ron’s she made sure not to break his gaze – and not to look at Harry.

 

Ronald was volatile enough as-is, and his insecurity only got worse if and when he perceived – real or imagined – something between Harry and Hermione that he wasn’t in on. _He_ had to be in on everything, not her. So to save Harry and herself from his childish antics over the next few weeks she was leaving Harry out of this. Let Ron think that it was just Hermione. Then, he could moan and groan to Harry, put her down as per usual, and be satisfied with himself if her “girl problems” were the root of the issue. Of course. Because everything in this world came down to her menstrual cycle.

 

The strained silence that had descended on them was broken by the creaking of the infirmary doors. Hermione held her breath as Professor McGonagall strode toward her.

 

“Ah, Miss Granger, I thought I might find you here. If you’d come with me please, the Headmaster would like to speak with you.”

 

“Of course, Professor.” Following her head of house out of the double doors Hermione didn’t look back.

 

Anticipation warred with anxiety, causing a veritable riot in her stomach. Last she had heard from the headmaster was exactly one week ago to the day. The day that a young Tom Marvolo Riddle had somehow landed in the present. Upon returning to Hogwarts Dumbledore has explicitly told Harry and herself that under no circumstances were they to reveal – to anyone – what had transpired. Too many unanswered questions existed, too many things could go wrong. Their situation was precarious at best. After assuring him of their discretion, they had been dismissed and the headmaster himself hadn’t been seen since.

 

Apparently he was back. And wanted to see her.

 

Finally cresting the stairs into the headmaster’s office, Hermione saw Dumbledore standing in front of his desk, waiting.

 

“Thank you Minerva.”

 

Hermione stood one pace inside the office as Professor McGonagall closed the heavy door behind her. The headmaster seemed… incredibly weary, yet not disheartened. She didn’t really know what to make of that… then again, she didn’t seem to know what to make of most things these days.

 

“Miss Granger, would you like to sit?”

 

“No, thank you Professor.”

 

“Very well.” He nodded sagely, blue eyes twinkling in spite of his obvious fatigue. “As I’m sure you’ve deduced, I asked you here today to discuss Tom Riddle, and our rather precarious situation.”

 

Nodding in affirmation, she waited for him to continue, her eyes narrowing as he sighed deeply and uncharacteristically broke eye contact to study his own hands. Specifically the blacked one, she noted.

 

“You know how sensitive time can be, Ms Granger, and there is a concern about the...” he paused, seeming to consider his words carefully, “potential ramifications of bringing anyone – particularly someone like Mr Riddle, who has had such a significant impact – from the past to the present. Even more concerning because his present self exists here as well.”

 

“Does he know?”

 

“His present self seems unaware of an existing counterpart.” Dumbledore’s voice was low, tone carefully neutral, eyes once again pinning hers. “His young self is aware that he exists in duality here, but has no hard knowledge about Lord Voldemort.”

 

Hermione paused to consider Dumbledore’s words and tone. He was speaking carefully, calculatedly even, and she couldn’t shake the feeling that there were layers to what he was telling her, more beneath the surface than was baldly stated. Unconsciously, she reached a hand up, curling a swath of hair repeated between index and middle fingers, tugging in frustration as she failed to grasp the deeper message.

 

“What do you need from me Professor?” She may not have dissected his hidden message, but she did know that he wouldn’t have asked her here simply to chat. There were strings attached to this information. A vague image of her as Pinocchio, dancing to strings pulled by a Dumbeldore Gepetto flitted briefly across her mind.

 

She didn’t doubt its validity for a second.

 

“There is a concern,” the headmaster began carefully “about a schism.”

 

Hermione gasped quietly, the pieces beginning to fall together. “Are you telling me that we may have created a parallel universe by tearing our own?”

 

He hummed but tilted his head considering. “Not yet, no. The fabric has torn; there can be no doubt about that. But Mr. Riddle believes – and I find myself in agreement – that while damaged it is still interwoven, overlapped if you will, and therefore is still possible to return him to his correct point in space-time. Such unification could heal the divide. But we only have one opportunity. Using the Time-Turner would return him to the proper time, however, Lord Voldemort’s apparent ignorance of this trip suggests that he would still be on the wrong side of the schism, and would still exist in duality. Which leave us with an unprecedented challenge.”

 

Hermione blew out a deep breath, mind tumbling over. There was no precedent for such a move. Could she call it a move? Where do you start when trying to create your own field of magic? Unprecedented wasn’t even the word for it.

 

“That doesn’t answer my question, sir. Aside from being the catalyst, I don’t see what that has to do with me.” Dread was pooling in her stomach.

 

“Mr Riddle has requested information, including several muggle - theorists - I believe.”

 

Intrigued, Hermione studied Dumbledore’s expression. “What did he ask for?”

 

“Einstein,” Hermione’s lips twitched into a smile. “Then muttered something about a Rosen Bridge. I must admit a certain ignorance on the topic.”

 

“So he’s interested in general relativity then. We should get Hawking’s work as well. Riddle wouldn’t have heard of him, he would only be a year old in Riddle’s time, but he’s positively brilliant and has contributed so much to the field.” She stopped, seeing the small smile curling the headmaster’s lips.

 

“I asked you here today, Ms Granger, because I’d like you to work with him. You are the two most academically accomplished students in Hogwarts’ history, with complimentary skill sets. And we shouldn’t underestimate the value of your knowledge of more recent studies in this endeavor.”

 

Hermione was rooted to the spot. She should be terrified. Roughly half of her brain knew that. But the rest had short-circuited at the idea of learning from someone as unquestionably brilliant as Tom Marvolo Riddle. And that is what would happen. She didn’t think Dumbledore had run this by Riddle. He wanted books, theories, and equipment no doubt, but surely not an assistant. He would almost certainly view her as a hindrance… possibly even a keeper. That thought dulled the buzz of excitement that had thrummed through her veins. Would he bother to explain his theories and calculations to a spy, or would he keep her in the dark? Everything she had learned about Riddle implied that he was a man inclined to keep his own counsel.

 

Coffee eyes meeting sky, Hermione nodded sharply once. “I’ll do it.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Confessions of the Author:  
> Her brain is tired. Woozy without caffeine. Must rest. Tis why you didn't get their actual first meeting in this update. Sorry my lovelies. Hope you enjoyed. Please let me know what you think!


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